Ralf came back and helped Stormy to unload the food onto the trolleys.
‘There we go,’ Al said, without moving from his seat. He leaned over and spiked a sausage and broke off a bit of piecrust. ‘That looks good, doesn’t it?’ He laid the bits on the table and began to shift them around with the tip of his finger, making a pattern. ‘Otto knows how to cook, I must say he does, the rogue.’
‘Right, Stormy,’ Ralf said when the trolleys were loaded up. ‘Follow me. Do what I do.’
They went down a long corridor and stopped at a blue door. A bald man wearing a black uniform opened it immediately. Without a word or look, he took the trolleys and thrust them through swing doors into the dining room beyond.
When the doors opened a burst of noise erupted – shouting, laughing and the clink of cutlery. Stormy caught a magical glimpse of brightness; lights shone, silverware glittered. He saw, in that instant, covered tables, the red and green of the Academy uniform, smiling faces, paintings on the walls, vases of flowers, mirrors . . . and then the door swung shut and it was gone.
He wondered if Araminta was there. Or the sky-rider who’d messed up his compost heap, but there was no second look; Ralf was already heading back.
‘That’s it, then,’ Ralf said, clapping his hands together. ‘Lunch duty done and dusted.’
‘And our lunch?’ Stormy’s breakfast porridge was a long time ago.
Ralf laughed. ‘You should’ve grabbed some when it came up. Now you’ll have to wait for the leftovers.’
‘Leftovers?’
‘That’s right. That’s what we eat.’ He saw Stormy’s startled expression and laughed. ‘It’s not so bad, just a bit cold. Hey, leave the trolley and let me show you this.’
Ralf nipped off down a side corridor and pushed open a big door.
‘No one’s around, they’re all stuffing their faces. This is the Gallery.’ He pulled Stormy inside. ‘The Silver Swords. Look! I don’t care for spitfyres, but aren’t they something?’
‘The Silver Swords?’ Stormy repeated. ‘Oh, my . . .’
The room was long and narrow and down one side were seven large swords. Each sword was wobbly and misshapen, strangely undefined, as if it hadn’t been quite finished. Above each sword was a name on a placard.
‘I’ve read about the race,’ Stormy said.
‘Yeah? It’s next year. They’re talking about it already. It’s the highest trophy of all. I wish I had a sword . . . Come on, let’s go get a breather.’
They went out and sat on the low stone wall. It was icy cold and Stormy shivered. Ralf took out a mouth organ and began playing it softly. The sad notes seemed to be caught by the breeze and dragged away towards the mountains.
Stormy peered down at the barred dungeon windows and below that the roofs of the kitchen, and beyond that the village and down into the distant valley and the town of Stollenback, a smudge in the distance. ‘Miles and miles to the bottom,’ he said.
Ralf shuddered. His mouth suddenly trembled and the notes wavered and died.
‘Ollie.’ He held his mouth organ against his chest and stared down into the valley. ‘Ollie had an accident,’ he said quietly.
Stormy stared at Ralf, then at the emptiness below.
‘Here?’
Ralf nodded, turned away and walked slowly back to his room.
10
Araminta
Al was still sitting at the table when Stormy went back in. He’d pushed the scraps of food around and around until they’d formed a flying thing – a bird or a spitfyre; it was hard to tell which. Stormy wondered if Al ever ate anything.
‘Lift,’ Al said, nodding towards it.
Stormy went to the lift.
‘Cake,’ Al said.
Stormy collected an enormous iced cake studded with nuts and cherries and placed it gently on the table.
‘Cake,’ Stormy agreed.
‘For the Director’s house,’ Al said. ‘You take it.’
‘Me?’ said Stormy in horror, looking at the vast cake beneath its pristine dome.
‘You. It’s an Otto special, for the Director. He and his darling daughter, they like cake. I think they’d like to eat cake for the rest of their lives. Just cake. Soft and creamy and no chewing. Funny, I don’t like cake. I like something to gnaw on. Bones and crusty bread.’
‘Can Ralf show me?’ Stormy was thinking of those sneering boys and girls at the window.
‘No need. It’s the tall building. Lots of windows. You’ll have seen it when you came in. Buck up, lad.’
Stormy felt panic rise up and lodge heavily like a brick in his chest. But he couldn’t not do it, the first job he was given. Buck up.
He walked carefully across the empty courtyard without glancing at the students’ windows. The courtyard seemed to have expanded and the Director’s house looked tiny and distant. The walk took years. He was sure he was being watched. It made him walk like somebody else, like someone who hadn’t done much walking and had to think about how to do it. He glared at the cake, willing it not to touch the sides of its glass dome.
Maud opened the door.
‘Hello,’ Stormy said. ‘It’s me again.’
For an instant her face lit up and a dimple appeared in her left cheek. ‘Hello, you again. How are you getting on?’ She looked away shyly and dug her hands into the pockets of her apron. ‘How’s it going?’
‘It’s fine. Great. I love it.’
‘Good.’ She smiled and the dimple appeared again. ‘You’re brave. I’d hate it – not the spitfyres, but everything else . . . How about Al? He’s a good man, don’t be put off by his gloominess.’
‘Cool. He’s cool. He sent me to bring this,’ Stormy said, lifting the cake up a little.
‘Really? I thought you must just like carrying it about,’ Maud said with a giggle.
Stormy reddened. ‘No, I –’
‘Did you cook it?’
‘Oh no, I couldn’t . . . well, I probably could because I do know how, but we’re not allowed to, down in Otto’s kitchen.’
‘I see,’ Maud said sternly. ‘But do you know how to eat cake?’
‘Of course I do. Oh . . .’
She was teasing him and he couldn’t look at her. He let his gaze wander instead down the brightly lit corridor beyond. There were paintings on the red walls and glass chandeliers, mirrors and ornate gold tables. He’d never seen anything like it, or even dreamed such things could exist.
‘Hey! Mind the cake!’ Maud held out her hands. ‘You’d better give that to me before you drop it.’
But before Stormy could pass it to her, a girl strode down the corridor towards them. She moved with the force of a hot wind. Her eyes were cold. She was beautifully dressed in a yellow satin skirt and a white blouse. He felt his knees give a little; Araminta. The girl who’d crashed her spitfyre.
She shoved Maud aside carelessly. ‘Who’s this? Who are you talking to, Maud?’
‘He’s the new boy to help Al. He’s –’ Maud began.
‘I think he can speak, can’t he?’ Araminta stared down at Stormy scornfully. She obviously did not recognise him at all. ‘You can speak, can’t you? Well, can’t you?’
He was disappointed that she didn’t remember him, but it was also dawning on him that she wasn’t just a sky-rider, she was important. She lived in the Director’s house.
‘I help in the servery, but really I’m to help the spitfyre keeper with the flying horses,’ he exaggerated. Why had he done that? She wasn’t interested in him anyway.
‘What are you doing here, then?’
‘Delivering Otto’s cake,’ he said, showing her the cake. ‘I’ve brought a cake. It’s a cake for the Director. It’s from Otto.’ Now he was talking rubbish.
Araminta tossed her head so her long black plait flicked over her shoulder. She was staring at him with the same oddly disturbing look that Mrs Cathcart had given him when she had dressed him in his new work clothes – as if he was something tasty to eat. Or may
be she did remember him?
‘Follow me. Bring the cake,’ she said.
Stormy glanced nervously at Maud, sure he shouldn’t be going inside, but she had taken a duster from her apron pocket and was rubbing furiously at the brass fingerplate. He stepped into the hall.
‘Don’t bring the cake! Give it to the maid!’
He wished she’d make her mind up who was to bring what. Quickly he passed the cake to Maud and followed Araminta, entranced by the glossy rope of dark hair swinging from side to side across her back. The tiny fraction of her face he could see showed her skin was as smooth and pale as a porcelain doll.
‘This is the Director’s study,’ Araminta said, leading him into a room. ‘You must never, never come in here.’
Stormy began to back out.
‘What are you doing? Come in!’ she snapped.
He went in and stood beside a round table in the centre of the room. There were books on it, a decanter of golden liquid, glasses, a box of cigars, and a massive glass paperweight in the shape of the Academy castle.
The walls of the study were lined with shelves of books and stuffed heads of deer and wolves. The deer looked petrified and the wolves looked fierce and Stormy thought how unfair it was to leave the poor deer being forever frightened.
Mastering the Skies, Aerodynamics for Animal Flyers, The Science of Spitfyres, Spitfyre Folklore, Training for Spitfyre Sky-riders, Flying Horses Forever – the titles of the books sent a thrilling shiver up his spine.
‘So, you replace Ollie?’ Araminta said. ‘I suppose you’re surprised I know a servery worker, aren’t you?’
Stormy shook his head, then nodded; she was so confusing.
‘The silly boy made a name for himself . . . You have a good head for heights, have you?’
He wished she wouldn’t stare at him so.
‘Yes, miss.’
‘The other boy did not.’
‘Didn’t he, miss?’ He pretended to know nothing of Ollie’s fate because it seemed safer.
She flicked her hair. ‘Don’t answer back!’ She glared at him. ‘Well, what do you think? Will you make a name for yourself? Answer me!’
‘I’m not clever,’ Stormy said. ‘I’ve never had the chance. But if I had the chance, if I could read all these books, or –’
She shook her pretty head. ‘No chance of that, kitchen boy!’
The swirly patterns on the green and gold carpet swirled some more. ‘No, miss.’
‘I’m the Director’s daughter,’ she said. ‘I give orders here. I can do whatever I like.’ She watched him closely, waiting for him to answer.
‘Yes, miss.’ The Director’s daughter? Oh, my!
‘And you must always do as I say,’ she added.
‘Yes, miss.’ Stormy nodded. Unable to return her stare he looked round at the fascinating things in the room, coming to a stop at a painting of a young man. ‘Is that the Director there?’ he blurted, pointing at the picture.
‘Which one, you totally rude boy?’
There were two almost identical paintings of two young men on the walls facing each other. They both wore their hair long, curling close round their faces.
‘Either.’
‘You are very nosey for a kitchen boy,’ she said. ‘One is my father and one is his brother. I never met my uncle. He’s dead.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. It happened ages and ages ago and he left all his money to Daddy so actually it was pretty lucky. If you have to share something you end up with less of it, which isn’t good. Don’t you agree?’
Stormy had always shared everything – his bunk, his clothes, and his food. But still he nodded.
Suddenly there was a knock at the door and Maud came in. ‘Did you ring? Tsk tsk,’ she added, eyeing the table. ‘I am sorry.’ She began dusting the table vigorously. ‘I’m so sorry, didn’t I polish this mahogany to your liking, miss? I could –’
‘No. I did not ring! Maud, you’ve got bells in your skull instead of brains. How dare you interrupt us? Go away.’
‘Yes, miss.’ Maud gave Stormy a quick cheeky grin, so fleeting he wasn’t sure it had been there at all, and backed out. ‘I can’t imagine what I was thinking,’ she muttered with a smile as she closed the door.
‘Maud has been with us since she was a baby. An orphan, like you,’ Araminta said. ‘Daddy treats her as part of the family; he is a very kind and generous man. My mother died, you know. Just three years and eight months ago. I think I’m forgetting her a little already. Daddy has forgotten her completely. Ah well . . .’
Stormy hardly heard her. What if Araminta and the Director had adopted him when he was a baby, instead of Otto and Mrs Cathcart taking him in at the orphanage? How different his life would have turned out then.
‘You’ll love it here,’ she went on. ‘My father is a great man. He has big ideas. He’s building the Academy into something stupendous. Its reputation is growing and soon –’ She hesitated. ‘Soon our spitfyres will rule the world!’
Stormy nodded, fired by her enthusiasm. ‘Yes, yes, I’m sure they will,’ he said. Our spitfyres. Our spitfyres!
‘Well, you’d better go,’ Araminta said, smiling at him sweetly. ‘I’m sorry, you must have lots of horrid dirty menial jobs to do.’
Stormy turned to leave, but she suddenly stopped him. ‘Wait. Do you think I’m very beautiful?’
‘Yes. I did when I first saw you,’ he said, honestly. ‘When you crashed the spitfyre and –’
She went very still. ‘I crashed the spitfyre? When did I crash . . . It was you!’
‘Yes. By the compost heap. And you asked me to give a message to Brittel. I didn’t tell anyone else, honestly.’
Her eyes flashed dangerously. ‘Good. My father doesn’t allow me to fly, boy – he would be angry if he found out. Don’t speak of it to anyone, do you understand? If you do, I will make things very difficult for you. I can, you know, and I will.’
Then she was pointing at the door and he was going towards it. Stumbling and knocking into the furniture, he made it to the corridor. He felt as if he’d been turned upside down and shaken. He wiped his sweaty palms down his trousers as he tottered towards the front door.
The fresh air was like nectar. He breathed it in deeply and ran down the steps two at a time. He forced himself to walk across the yard slowly, as if his cheeks weren’t on fire. He had never met anyone as bewildering as Araminta.
11
Spitfyres
The servery was deserted. Stormy stared at the trolleys of half-empty dishes and bowls of untouched perfect, delicious Otto food.
All that grub and he didn’t feel hungry. Araminta had troubled him. He put aside a little pie on a dish and laid a cloth over it. Maybe later . . . The rest of the food he would have to tip into the rubbish buckets. He hated the thought of throwing it away and decided to put it off for now. He began to wash the dishes, wipe down the table and sweep the floor.
Still no one came.
He started to clean the forlorn room. The small stove hadn’t been used for about a hundred years. Old grease had dried in rivulets like candle wax and was as thick as his fingers and black with age. He chiselled it off with a blade. He rubbed and scratched and scrubbed, hoping he could scour Araminta’s cutting words from his mind.
He kept expecting someone to shout at him or to deliver a whack from a number six spoon, but there was no one to do either. He was alone. Below, in Otto’s kitchen, in the dormitory, the dining hall, you were never alone. Stormy stopped working and listened to the clock ticking and the birds outside calling. He didn’t like this peace. He felt the vast openness of the outside all around him; freedom – he didn’t like that either. He missed the smells of the linen cloths drying by the stove, the warm bread, and garlic frying. Cakes. Hot apple pie. And he missed smelly Sponge leaning against his leg.
As he wiped his wet hands down his trousers, his fingers caught on a length of white ribbon dangling from his pocket. White
ribbon? Perhaps it had always been in the pocket of the too-short blue trousers and he hadn’t noticed it before. Perhaps Mrs Cathcart put it there for some odd womanly reason. He stuffed it back in quickly at the sound of Al’s squeaky leg.
Ralf came in behind Al.
‘Hell’s bells,’ Al said, stopping mid-stride and looking slowly round at the sparkling kitchen. ‘Look at this, Ralf.’ Al sat down stiffly at the kitchen table, wiping his palm over the clean surface.
Ralf whistled.
Stormy handed Al the list to remind him of some of the duties – cleaning being one of them. He fancied he smelled sherry trifle all of a sudden, and the smell came from Al.
‘Haven’t I done it right?’
Al took the list from Stormy and scrumpled it up and chucked it on the floor. ‘I never said follow it, did I?’ Stormy felt his heart flip; he was in trouble . . .
‘It’s all right,’ Al grunted. ‘If you must. I’d rather you didn’t. Oh, I don’t care –’
‘Dinner time,’ Ralf interrupted as a buzzer sounded. ‘That’s the spitfyre food.’
Stormy followed him to a stone-floored pantry adjoining the servery. It smelled like the compost heap. All that hard work down below, all that cleanliness, and then this . . .
The dumb waiter rattled its way towards them. The walls shook and the sound of screeching wheels filled the room.
‘You know spitfyres are really rated down in Otto’s kitchen,’ Stormy said tentatively, knocking a cockroach from its perch by the lift. ‘I mean, they worship them, almost.’
‘Oh, yeah?’ Ralf said.
‘Brittel cooks special recipes – they’ve taken years to develop. They make the food behind locked doors.’
‘Is that so?’ Ralf said blankly.
‘Each spitfyre gets a special blend of –’
‘All the same to Al what they get,’ Ralf said, ‘so it’s all the same to me.’
‘You know it’s a bit dirty up here,’ Stormy said. ‘Otto teaches us to have pride in –’
‘We don’t do pride here! And spitfyres don’t know about clean,’ Ralf said. ‘Spitfyres never come in here,’ he added with a chuckle.
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